


In Joy As Well

by sevenfists



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Love, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24233407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Zhenya hadn’t wanted to move into Sid’s house. He liked his own house, with its grand curving staircase and the big yard and the woods beyond. Sid’s neighbors were too close and his house was too professionally designed and decorated. It lacked character, although the pool was a plus.--Scenes from a marriage.
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Comments: 47
Kudos: 375
Collections: The 2020 Sid/Geno Exchange





	In Joy As Well

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shelterforananimal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelterforananimal/gifts).



**2013**

Sid tsked. “He should have taken that shot. He passes too much.”

Zhenya glanced over at him. “Getzlaf?” Getzlaf was Anaheim’s leading scorer, the last Zhenya had heard.

“It’s a bad habit,” Sid insisted. “The net was wide open.”

“I guess,” Zhenya said. He probably would have passed that, too.

“You’re just saying that because you would have passed it,” Sid said, like he was reading Zhenya’s mind.

Zhenya’s hackles went up immediately. Was Sid seriously going to start in on this again? He reached for the remote, lying on the bed between them. “I’m tired of hockey. Let’s watch—”

“Come on, this is a good game.” Sid took the remote out of Zhenya’s hand before he could change the channel. “And maybe you can learn something about passing, eh?”

He said it like he was joking, but it wasn’t a joke. He would keep picking, finding other things to criticize: Zhenya’s alleged laziness during practice, his sloppy zone entries which in Zhenya’s opinion weren’t sloppy in any way. Zhenya wished he hadn’t given his Hart to Seryozha so he could beat Sid over the head with it.

“I pass fine,” Zhenya said. “You don’t even play for like, years.” He regretted his words immediately when Sid flinched, but was also viciously pleased. Sid was the one who kept starting these pointless, bewildering arguments. He shouldn’t dish it out if he couldn’t take it.

Sid shifted minutely away from Zhenya, withdrawing from the warm slump they had settled into. “I’m playing this season.” Then, under his breath, he muttered, “Better than you are.”

Hot fury crashed into Zhenya like a tidal wave. Sid had been doing this to him all season, since they both got back to Pittsburgh after the lockout, and he didn’t know why and wanted it to stop. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. 

“Oh, now you’re going to leave,” Sid said, his voice rich with scorn.

“Yes,” Zhenya said, abruptly more tired and sad than angry. He needed to stop hanging out with Sid, but it was so much fun when Sid wasn’t being a piece of shit for no reason: watching TV in Sid’s hotel room, eating illicit snacks and laughing about whatever show they had settled on. Sid would slowly melt into Zhenya’s personal space. A week ago he had laid his head on Zhenya’s shoulder, and Zhenya had been thinking about that constantly ever since, a hot coal of a memory that burned him every time he probed at it. Nothing made sense anymore.

“Fine.” Zhenya could hear the scowl in Sid’s voice but didn’t turn to see it. “Our food’s gonna be here soon, but—whatever. Do whatever you want.”

Of course: Sid was calm and rational, and Zhenya was an oversensitive baby who couldn’t take helpful criticism. Zhenya’s fury returned full force. He stood up and shoved his feet into his slides. He promised himself he was never going to spend time with Sid again.

“Bye, I guess,” Sid said.

Zhenya slammed out of Sid’s hotel room for the third time that month and stormed down the hall, fuming and sorry. He had never had so much conflict with a friend and didn’t know what was happening or why. He missed the Sid who liked him.

In his own room, he turned on the air conditioning as high as it would go, hoping the white noise would quiet his thoughts and his racing pulse. The adrenaline from the fight had him all amped up. He needed to sleep tonight because they had a game tomorrow. He couldn’t spend another night lying awake mentally reliving the argument and coming up with the perfect belated retorts. If his hockey was suffering—which it _wasn’t_ —it was entirely Sid’s fault.

He flopped onto the bed on his back and stared at the ceiling. A few minutes of deep, calming breaths settled his body but not his mind. He was so fucking confused about what was going on with Sid.

A knock came at the door. It was probably Sid, right on cue, to tender an awkward apology and keep Zhenya up past his bedtime. _Again_.

If he didn’t answer, they would just have to do this tomorrow, and by then the bad feelings would have calcified. Better to get it over with. Zhenya heaved himself from the bed.

“Hey,” Sid said, when Zhenya opened the door. He dragged a hand through his hair. “Can I, uh.”

All of this was rote by now. Zhenya let him in and sat in the desk chair, leaving Sid the choice of sitting on the bed or standing uncomfortably in the middle of the room. It was a petty move, but Zhenya was a petty person.

Usually Sid stood, but this time he sat on the end of the bed, close enough to Zhenya that their knees almost brushed. He looked at Zhenya. Zhenya looked back and said nothing. He had no incentive to bail Sid out by opening the peace negotiations.

“So.” Sid clasped his hands between his knees. “I suck.”

Zhenya grunted. He was in full agreement.

“I don’t know why I keep doing this,” Sid said. “I just—” He broke off and stared down at his hands. His knees were bare below the hems of his basketball shorts and lightly furred. “I mean, I kind of know why.”

Zhenya waited in silence for Sid’s revelation. When many agonizing seconds dragged by without Sid saying anything, he finally gave in and said, “Yes?”

Sid was gripping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. His jaw worked like he was testing the shape of the words. Then he leaned forward, without warning, and pressed his mouth to Zhenya’s.

Zhenya reared back, shocked—physically shocked, like he had touched a live wire. He stared at Sid as Sid’s face flushed crimson.

“I’ll go,” Sid said, and shifted his weight to stand up.

Zhenya reached out and grabbed the front of Sid’s T-shirt before he could stand. He didn’t know what to say or even really what to think, but he knew he didn’t want Sid to leave.

They stared at each other. Slowly, Sid settled back into place on the bed.

Zhenya licked his lips. He couldn’t say he was entirely surprised. But somehow it was still a complete surprise, something he had never dared to contemplate even in the face of Sid curled up beside him on the bed.

“So, um,” Sid said. He started fiddling with the drawstring of his shorts.

“Do again,” Zhenya said, the most reckless two words he’d ever spoken. His heart was beating as fast as it had been when he and Sid were not-quite-yelling at each other.

“Oh.” Sid blinked at him a few times. His lips parted in surprise, or maybe wonder. Then he leaned in.

**2014**

If Zhenya were a better man, he would have stayed to watch Canada win the gold. But he was only himself, angry and hurting, and he went to Moscow instead. Guilt prodded him to message Sid after he arrived. Sid replied with a heart emoji, and that was all. 

Even after they were both back in Pittsburgh, they avoided each other for a few days. Or at least Zhenya was avoiding Sid, and he assumed it was mutual because Sid made no attempt to reach out to him. Sid kept half the rink between them at practice and barely glanced in Zhenya’s direction. Every day that passed made Zhenya feel worse, until he was spending all of his free time lying on the couch with the blinds closed, staring at the ceiling and contemplating his vast array of mistakes.

He was staring at the contents of his freezer when he heard the front door open. The list of people who had a key wasn’t long, but he was afraid to guess who might have decided to drop by. There was only one person he wanted to see.

He tore the cellophane from the frozen pizza, the sad, lonely dinner of a sad and lonely man. From the doorway, Sid’s voice said, “Hey, G.”

Zhenya didn’t turn. “Hi, Sid.”

“Look, I know you don’t want to see me right now,” Sid said, “but I’m getting worried. I haven’t heard from you, and I thought…”

He trailed off. Zhenya shot a cautious glance at Sid over his shoulder. Sid was still wearing his coat and shoes, like he wasn’t planning to stay, or—Zhenya told himself to be charitable—he wasn’t sure of his welcome. 

“I think you don’t want to see,” Zhenya said. The oven beeped, finished preheating, and he slid the pizza onto the bare rack. 

“What? Why wouldn’t I want to see you?” Sid unzipped his coat, and Zhenya’s icy heart melted slightly. At least Sid wasn’t heading straight back out the door.

“Because I leave Sochi,” Zhenya said cautiously. He set the timer for the pizza and leaned back against the island. Sid had hung his coat on the back of one of the dining chairs and sat down to untie his shoes. “Before you win. And don’t say goodbye.”

“Kind of what I expected, to be honest with you.” Sid smiled at him, and Zhenya felt himself thaw even further. He had missed Sid’s smile over the past week. “I figured we’d talk when we got back. But then you were really keeping your distance, and I didn’t want to push you before you were ready.”

“So why you come over,” Zhenya said, because he was pretty sure that counted as pushing.

Sid’s expression turned sheepish. “Well, I missed you. And I was worried, I mean, you’re pretty stubborn, so I was worried maybe you’d just never text me again.”

He wasn’t wrong about Zhenya’s proclivities. Zhenya shrugged and took a beer from the fridge and held it out to Sid, silently offering. Sid nodded, so Zhenya took out a second bottle and carried them both over to the table and sat down beside Sid.

“Hey,” Sid said. He cautiously touched Zhenya’s knee. “How are you doing?”

Zhenya shrugged again. He wasn’t doing great, but Sid probably knew that.

Sid spun the beer bottle between his hands. “You gotta tell me what you need, here. I wish I knew the perfect thing to say, but. I don’t. I want to be able to help you.”

There was no helping Zhenya. He had failed his teammates and his country. One didn’t recover from that sort of defeat.

“You know, in Vancouver,” Sid went on when Zhenya didn’t reply. “The pressure, I mean—I thought a lot about what it would be like to lose. If you need time, I get it. I just hope…”

“What,” Zhenya said.

Sid shot him a sidelong glance. He looked worried, and also so dear and familiar, with his sweet crooked face beneath the bill of his cap. Zhenya was a puddle of meltwater now, warming to room temperature. Why had he shut himself off from Sid, who was always a source of comfort?

“I just. Are we gonna be okay?” Sid asked.

Zhenya raised his eyebrows. “You think we’re not?”

“I should have come over sooner.” Sid rubbed at his face. “I should have texted you. I guess I’m still, uh. I’m always kind of worried about screwing up with you.”

Zhenya scooted his chair closer and ducked his head to kiss Sid’s shoulder. “I don’t make it easy.”

He felt Sid’s hand cup his elbow. “Yeah, but I kind of like the challenge.”

Zhenya snorted. He sat up to take in Sid’s smile, and clasped Sid’s hand in his own. Sid’s empathy had punctured Zhenya’s bubble of self-pity, and he could feel the theatrics seeping out of him as reason returned. “Sid, I feel bad. Terrible. But it’s like, I lose before, you know? At World Junior. In 2008. It’s worse now, but I’m okay soon.”

“And you’re not mad at me that, uh. That Canada won?”

“Like, maybe don’t show me your medal,” Zhenya said, and Sid squeezed his hand. Zhenya couldn’t be happy for Sid yet, but he would work on that. “Sid, of course we’re okay. Sorry I don’t text. It’s bad I don’t talk to you, like—I make you worry, and it’s not right. I love you.”

“Oh,” Sid said. His eyes widened. “Wow. You—really?”

“It’s okay?” Zhenya asked, suddenly afraid he had misstepped. They’d never said the words, but surely Sid knew how he felt.

Sid bent his head to his lap. The gesture didn’t hide his smile. “Better than winning gold,” he said.

**2016**

“Oh good,” Sid said. “More socks.”

Zhenya still didn’t always pick up on the finer nuances of humor and irony in English, but he knew that tone of dry sarcasm. Sid wasn’t happy. Zhenya cautiously lowered his phone.

Sid was standing by the ottoman at the other end of the couch, holding the pair of white athletic socks Zhenya had discarded after his morning workout. If his voice hadn’t already made his displeasure clear, his expression would have done the job.

“What,” Zhenya said, although he knew.

“You couldn’t take these upstairs?” Sid asked. “The couch isn’t your laundry basket.”

“We have housekeeper!” Zhenya protested. He was tired of having this argument. His socks weren’t hurting anyone.

“She just came yesterday,” Sid said. “You’re going to let these sit here for a week?”

This was exactly why Zhenya hadn’t wanted to move into Sid’s house. He liked his own house, with its grand curving staircase and the big yard and the woods beyond. Sid’s neighbors were too close and his house was too professionally designed and decorated. It lacked character, although the pool was a plus. They’d had many, many conversations about who would sell his house, and Zhenya had never made any progress, not even when he suggested the neutral third option of buying a new home together. Sid reeled off a lot of noncommittal platitudes about thinking it over and remained as unbendingly determined to stay in his house as a moray eel backed into a nice hole in a reef. After several months of inertia, Zhenya decided he liked Sid enough to take the L on this one. 

He didn’t regret giving in, but there were times he missed being able to leave his socks wherever the fuck he wanted to. 

He raised his phone again to indicate that he was done talking about the sock issue. “I wear again tomorrow. It’s more easy to leave here.”

Sid took a deep breath, which meant he was trying not to raise his voice. He could get mean when they argued and had promised after a blowout a few months ago that he would do better. “Sorry. Let me start over. It bugs me when you leave your socks lying around. If you want to re-wear them, maybe you could, like. Put them by your shoes.”

Zhenya was happy to accept this peace offering. For all the drama of his past relationships, he didn’t like to quarrel with Sid. He was old now and wanted only to be happy at home, and for Sid to be happy, because when he was content he would hum absently to himself while doing household chores, which had been Zhenya’s favorite discovery upon moving in together. He loved to hear Sid humming as he did the dishes, often a Russian pop hit from Zhenya’s internet radio stream.

“Maybe you get me basket,” Zhenya said, a little sly, because Sid was clueless but earnest about decorating and liked to buy baskets to put things in—to cut down on the clutter, he said. Zhenya still didn’t know where he’d gotten the idea but suspected Sid’s mother was involved.

Sid folded his arms. “I know you’re making fun of me.” His mouth quirked at one corner, a familiar tell.

Sensing impending victory, Zhenya forged ahead. “Get one that’s like—how you say, like thin wood?”

“Wicker?” Sid guessed. “I’m not talking about this anymore. You’re making fun of me. Pick up your fucking socks.” But he was smiling, and he made brownies later, so Zhenya knew he was forgiven.

Zhenya forgot about the whole conversation until he came home from the grocery store a few days later and took off his shoes and noticed a new basket beneath the bench in the mud room. Square, wicker, lined with white fabric. He crouched down to examine it more closely. Inside were all of his workout socks, folded together and arranged in neat rows.

He didn’t say anything to Sid about it, and Sid didn’t bring it up, either. But Zhenya stopped leaving his socks around the house after that.

**2017**

Sid cooked for three days ahead of time, fitting it in between practice and workouts and team meetings. Zhenya helped as much as he could by chopping things and setting timers and running to the store for forgotten crucial ingredients. He thought Sid was overdoing it, but he understood why: their first Thanksgiving with Sid’s family in the home they shared. He would have the same impulse for everything to be perfect if it were his own family.

“How the fuck do you cook a turkey?” Sid asked him the morning before the big day, standing at the kitchen island with his laptop open, scowling at the screen. Zhenya stood behind him to read over his shoulder. Sid was studying a turkey recipe that looked to have far too many steps and ingredients. 

“Put in the oven, cook, cut up, eat,” Zhenya said. “Easy.” He squeezed Sid’s hip reassuringly, and then patted his ass, less reassuringly.

“Yeah, but should I brine it first?” Sid asked. “Or dry-brine? Fuck, I don’t have time for that. Maybe I’ll put it in the smoker.”

“Call the caterer,” Zhenya suggested. “Sid, you’re worry too much.”

“I’m not _worried_ ,” Sid said. “I just want it to be good. And homemade. So stop telling me to buy the side dishes from Whole Foods.”

Zhenya held up his hands in a gesture of surrender and let it go. The key to domestic bliss was knowing how to pick your battles.

He didn’t know exactly what Sid ended up deciding to do about the turkey, but there was indeed a turkey, and all of the side dishes Zhenya had come to love: mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, pillowy dinner rolls, and a weird pie he had never eaten before that was admittedly delicious when Trina finally coaxed him to try it.

“Sugar pie,” she said. “Is this my recipe?”

“Obviously,” Sid said, smiling at her from across the table.

“I think Sid’s version might be better,” Troy said. “Sorry, honey.”

“Ooh, _drag_ her,” Taylor said, and they were all laughing, happy to be together. Zhenya felt a little out of place, like a thumb on a hand: not quite a finger, but close enough. It wasn’t a bad feeling. He liked to see Sid with his family, playful and relaxed. He liked to hope that someday soon they might be _his_ family, too.

In a couple of months, he would be going to Cole Harbour with Sid for Christmas for the first time. He hadn’t brought it up last year, not wanting to push, and then it turned out Sid had been hurt by that and thought Zhenya wasn’t interested. So this year, Zhenya had made a big production of buying tickets for both of them at the end of August, and Sid’s quiet delight had finally made Zhenya’s decision for him. He would ask Sid over Christmas, in Sid’s house on the lake, just the two of them.

“Geno likes it,” Trina said, nodding to Zhenya’s empty dessert plate. “Let’s focus on what matters here. That it’s my recipe.”

“Let me pour you some more wine, mom,” Sid said, grinning, already lifting the bottle.

Sid had a condo downtown where his family usually stayed when they came to visit. When they left that night, after a long time spent lingering over coffee and dessert, Sid and Zhenya put away the leftovers and wiped down the counters and finished the last of the wine, trading the bottle back and forth until only the dregs remained. Zhenya stole a kiss between every swig, tempted by Sid’s red mouth and his warm rumpled inebriation.

“This was really nice,” Sid said. “Thanks.”

“For what?” Zhenya asked. He draped both arms over Sid’s shoulders and bent to tuck his face into the crook of Sid’s neck. “I just eat.”

“You’re nice to my parents,” Sid said. His hands settled at Zhenya’s waist. “And my sister. They really like you.”

“I like them,” Zhenya said. He kissed Sid’s neck. “Next year we’ll make Russian food. Special Russian Thanksgiving.”

Sid’s body shook gently with his laughter. “Okay. I’ll start planning the menu.”

**2019**

Zhenya agonized over the gift for weeks. Flowers would be easy, but Sid wouldn’t like them. Well, he wouldn’t object to them; he would simply be indifferent, which was possibly even worse. Flowers and chocolate? He was impossible to shop for because his taste was baffling and unpredictable and anything he wanted he usually bought for himself before Zhenya had the chance to give it to him as a gift. He liked wine but not enough to appreciate an expensive bottle, and he had enough watches. He would skin Zhenya alive if Zhenya attempted any elaborate public demonstrations of his deathless love. What else was there?

Finally, in desperation, Zhenya commissioned an oil painting of one of their wedding photos. It was an obvious move and tragically lacking in creativity, but Sid could always hang it in the basement out of sight if he was ashamed of Zhenya’s paltry effort. If only Sid would tolerate a hot air balloon picnic or anything involving exotic animals.

He deliberated for so long that he had to pay extra for a rush job, and even so the painting wasn’t ready until a few nail-biting days before their anniversary. Zhenya went to pick it up after practice, giving Sid some lame excuse about an oil change. To his immense relief, the painting was perfect. Sid would cry for sure. 

He woke up early the morning of and spooned up behind Sid in bed. The date was nothing memorable: they’d gotten married on a random Wednesday in February, a rare day off. That day, they had to be at the rink for practice in less than two hours, but that was plenty of time for a quickie. He kissed the back of Sid’s neck and groped him through his shorts until Sid stirred and said, “Mm, Geno?”

“Good morning,” Zhenya said to him in Russian, and gave him a squeeze.

“Mm,” Sid said again. He snuggled back into Zhenya’s embrace. “You wanna?”

Obviously Zhenya did, and it was very satisfying: the best way to start the morning. He mopped off and went downstairs while Sid was still in the shower, and brought the painting into the kitchen for its grand unveiling. Was Sid going to love it? Hopefully, but Zhenya couldn’t be sure. Every anniversary was important, but this was their first, maybe the most important of all, and Zhenya wanted it to be perfect.

He got out the ingredients for Sid’s habitual morning protein shake while he waited, and emptied the dishwasher they had run the night before. When he heard Sid’s footsteps on the back stairs, he turned, heart beating fast, to wait for Sid’s reaction.

They’d gone to the courthouse, just the two of them and the videographer they’d hired, because Sid hadn’t wanted to wait, and it was too complicated to coordinate all of their friends and family across three continents. The picture Zhenya had finally selected was of the two of them standing on the front steps of the courthouse in their winter coats, holding hands, looking at each other instead of at the camera. 

Sid stopped on the bottom step. “Oh,” he said.

What the fuck, did he hate it? “It’s from our wedding,” Zhenya said. He touched the corner of the canvas, like he could somehow make the painting acceptable to Sid. “I guess it’s dumb—”

“No,” Sid said. He took the final step down into the kitchen. “It’s just, uh.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “That was today?”

All of Zhenya’s hopeful anticipation was withering away. “What?”

“I forgot,” Sid said. He scrubbed his hand through his hair again and glanced aside, wincing. “I’m sorry. Please don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what,” Zhenya said flatly. He couldn’t help what his face was doing.

“Like I just broke your heart,” Sid said. “G—”

“It’s fine,” Zhenya said. He turned aside and moved the bag of chia seeds a few centimeters to the left. “Here’s your smoothie. I need to get dressed.”

“Zhenya,” Sid said, but Zhenya was past him already to go back upstairs.

He had gotten control of his emotions by the time they left for the rink, and managed to make perfectly ordinary small talk about their plans for the day. Sid kept shooting him sidelong glances that Zhenya pretended not to see. It was stupid to be upset. He knew Sid loved him. He knew Sid wasn’t a romantic; he knew Sid didn’t care about anniversaries.

But Sid remembered their _other_ anniversary every year, the date of the first time they kissed in Zhenya’s hotel room. They went out for dinner to celebrate, usually, and Sid gave him a card or flowers or a small gift, because he knew it was important to Zhenya, and he was a good and careful person and always tried to do the right thing.

Zhenya didn’t have big expectations. Sid was the kind of person who thought a good birthday involved a blowjob and a cake from a box, and Zhenya was fine with that. He had expected Sid to _remember_ , though, and do _something_. Sid always had before.

He would get over it. He had vowed to love Sid in good times and in bad, in joy as well as in sorrow, and he still meant those vows with every fiber of his being, even when Sid bought the wrong kind of toilet paper, even when they had the same stupid fight for the millionth time. Even when Sid forgot their anniversary.

Even so, when they got home he gave Sid a lame mumbled excuse about taking a nap and went upstairs to lie in bed and scroll through Instagram for a while. He was just disappointed. His anniversary gift to himself was an hour to stew beneath the covers.

He skulked downstairs at last, a bit embarrassed now about his bad mood and prepared to let Sid kiss his ass a little to make amends—maybe literally. But Sid was nowhere to be found, and his car wasn’t in the driveway. Maybe he had run to the store. Zhenya ate a yogurt, thought about eating a second one, checked his email and his text messages, and finally wandered toward the back of the house to vegetate in front of the TV.

He heard Sid come home a while later: the side door opening and closing, the faint jingle of Sid’s keys as he tossed them onto the console table. Zhenya thought about getting up and going to greet Sid to extend the olive branch. He didn’t get up; he stayed where he was, flat on his back with his feet propped up on the arm of the couch, the way Sid hated. 

“G?” he heard Sid calling, and Sid’s soft footsteps coming down the hall. At the last second, Zhenya slid his feet off the arm and sat up and tried to look welcoming. No need to pick a fight.

Sid appeared in the doorway, still wearing his cap because he liked to fail at being incognito even in the privacy of his own home. He was holding a huge bouquet of pink roses, extravagant enough to impress even Zhenya. “There you are,” he said. “Hi.”

Zhenya’s lingering sour mood contracted into a hard knot beneath his breastbone. He wasn’t quite ready to forgive and forget, but he hated being at odds with Sid, and Sid looked so sincere and sorry that he almost couldn’t bear it. He rubbed his hands over his face. “Sid—”

“I love you,” Sid said. “So much. I set a reminder on my phone, but I guess it got buried in my notifications. I know this stuff is important to you. I screwed up.”

Zhenya slumped over, his elbows braced on his knees. “How many flowers?”

Sid grinned. “Seventy-one, obviously.” He set the bouquet on the side table and sat beside Zhenya on the sofa. Zhenya turned toward him and mashed his face against Sid’s shoulder. Sid wrapped an arm around Zhenya and kissed his head and said, “I love you. Happy anniversary. You’re probably regretting marrying me right now, but I’m—” He broke off. When he spoke again, his voice sounded a little ragged. “The thing is. I’m happy to be married to you every single day. Every morning I wake up and I feel the ring on my finger and I—” He stopped again, and swallowed a few times. “G, I love you so much. I suck at anniversaries because I guess I feel like every day with you is special. Fuck, that’s so corny.”

“You’ve gotten good at apologizing,” Zhenya said in Russian, and what he meant was that he sometimes watched their wedding video on his phone when he couldn’t sleep because he loved to see the joy shining from Sid’s face. He sat up and planted noisy, obnoxious kisses on Sid’s cheek until Sid laughed and gave him a real kiss.

“The painting is incredible,” Sid said. “By the way. Thank you.” 

“I don’t regret that we’re married,” Zhenya said. “I’m glad every day. Let’s order pizza tonight.” 

“I was planning to cook up some of those vareniki,” Sid said. “But if you’d rather—”

“No,” Zhenya said. “Vareniki sounds good.”

**2021**

Sid was a simple creature and liked shopping at big-box stores, even though he always got recognized, especially now that he was often accompanied by Zhenya, who had little to no interest in going to Target but was still so foolishly smitten that every outing with Sid was a fun adventure. Every couple of months they ended up at the Target in Cranberry after practice, shopping for storage bins or cleaning supplies or browsing the dollar section. Sid wasn’t cheap, but he had grown up poor and still liked a good bargain, which was a trait Zhenya publicly chirped him for and privately found adorable.

“Okay,” Sid said, studying the list on his phone. “Let’s split up. We need more of the kitchen cleaner, the—”

“Yes, I know,” Zhenya said. “ _Pamplemousse._ ” For some reason he couldn’t ever remember the word for _grapefruit_ in English, only in French. 

“You got it.” Sid tapped the screen a couple of times and scrolled down. “Could you get—the baby shower for Rusty’s wife is coming up, could you pick something out?”

“It’s a boy or a girl?” Zhenya asked. He was probably supposed to know this already, but there were so many wives and so many babies. It was hard to keep track.

Sid shrugged. “I think they’re waiting to find out, so. You know, nothing pink or blue. Come find me when you’re done, I’ll be in the home goods section.”

The parameters of his mission were clear. Zhenya took his shopping basket to the cleaning aisle and found the all-purpose spray in its pink bottle. Years of living with Sid had done wonders for his English, but he still identified products mostly by their packaging. He added a pack of dish sponges, because they were almost out, and a scented candle for the downstairs powder room, because Sid thought scented candles in the bathroom were the mark of a civilized home. Then he moved on to the baby section.

Team baby showers were the province of the wives and girlfriends. As Zhenya and Sid had both failed to attach themselves to an appropriately female person, they existed in a weird liminal state that nobody was totally sure how to deal with. They typically sent a gift and a card in lieu of attending and everyone was content with that. 

Picking out the present was usually Sid’s task, because he liked shopping more than Zhenya did. He had probably only asked Zhenya to do it this time because he wanted to mull over throw pillows uninterrupted by Zhenya’s increasingly impatient sighs. Well, that was fine; how hard could it be to buy something for an unborn baby? It wasn’t like they had developed any opinions yet.

Zhenya started with a lap around the perimeter of the baby area to take stock. He wanted to buy something cute and impractical, so that meant no diapers or car seats. A stuffed animal seemed too easy, and also he’d heard both Ksusha and Katya complaining about how many stuffed animals they had to contend with. Maybe some blankets? He found a blanket with a pattern of lemons on it and added that to his basket.

One blanket probably wasn’t enough. He picked out a towel with a hood in the shape of an elephant’s face, then drifted into the racks of clothing.

Everything was so small. Tiny shirts, tiny pants. A tiny little outfit with a bear face on it, complete with three-dimensional ears. Pajamas in a rainbow print, which Zhenya put in his basket just because. Little white onesies with their tiny arm- and leg-holes. He could picture the baby that would fit inside. Its little arms and legs and scrunched-up face.

Nearby, two women were shopping with an overflowing cart. One of them was heavily pregnant and kept a hand on her belly as she browsed the racks. The other woman seemed to be there mostly to nod in approval or shake her head in distaste. Zhenya wondered if they were sisters, then had to hastily revise his assumption when the pregnant one leaned in for a kiss.

His hand tightened on the onesie he was holding, then relaxed again. The women broke apart, smiled at each other, shared another kiss. Zhenya thought about catching their attention to ask when the baby was due and offer his congratulations, but the words lodged in his throat. He knew what he was feeling, but he didn’t want to identify or acknowledge it.

He put the onesie back on the rack. Three things was plenty. Nobody expected men to know what to get for a baby.

Sid wasn’t in the home goods section. Zhenya found him picking out ice cream in the freezer aisle. He had his arms folded as he frowned at the selection, the same posture and expression he adopted for team meetings. Zhenya deliberately squeaked his feet against the tile flooring as he approached, because he loved the way Sid’s face always brightened slightly when he saw Zhenya coming. Sid wasn’t sick of him yet, somehow. Sid wanted to go to Target with him and also suck his dick. Zhenya knew that many people had happy marriages, but privately he thought his marriage was the best and happiest.

“Hey,” Sid said, smiling at him. He leaned in to bump their shoulders together, and Zhenya pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “I got some of that sorbet you like.”

“Good,” Zhenya said. “We won’t get divorced yet. You want to see what I picked out for the shower?”

Sid shook his head. He opened the freezer door to take out a pint of the chocolate and peanut butter Ben & Jerry’s, the same flavor he always bought. “Nah. I trust you.”

**2022**

Rutherford asked to meet with him a couple of weeks before the trade deadline. Zhenya knew what it would be about and wasn’t at all surprised when Rutherford opened bluntly with, “Your contract’s up this summer.”

“Yes,” Zhenya said. He had avoided re-signing last summer when Rutherford first raised the issue because he and Sid were embroiled in a wordless subterranean domestic drama about retirement that made Zhenya feel sick to his stomach whenever he thought about it, and the term of Zhenya’s next contract was a major component. He was thirty-five, and he still felt good and wanted to keep playing, but there was a chance this might be his final contract. Sid came up for renewal in another three years, and Zhenya had a lot of gross, sentimental fantasies about retiring together. He didn’t want to play hockey without Sid.

The trouble was, he wasn’t sure Sid felt the same way.

“What are your thoughts?” Rutherford asked. “You know you have a place on this team as long as you want it, Evgeni.”

 _Did_ he know that? Zhenya kept his fat mouth shut. “I need to talk to Sid. But I’ll let you know by the end of the week.”

Zhenya drove home in a black fog. He was thirty-five, and he was getting old and slow, and no matter what Mario said, the organization wasn’t going to want to sign him to anything long-term. Three years he might be able to beg for, but more than that? But they would keep signing Sid until he collapsed into a grave. What would Zhenya do in Pittsburgh if Sid was still playing? Watch the news? Garden? 

Sid was home, humming to himself in the kitchen as he prepped dinner. He smiled when Zhenya came into the room and said, “C’mere and give me a kiss, my hands are covered in chicken.”

“Sexy,” Zhenya said, and bestowed the requested kiss. He would have to tell Sid about his meeting with Rutherford, but he wanted to ease his way into it. The last time they had talked about this, Sid had cried a little, which always made Zhenya feel like absolute shit. He wasn’t eager for a repeat performance.

Because Sid was always the braver of the two of them, he finally brought it up that evening when they were cleaning up after dinner. “So,” he said, loading the dishwasher and carefully not looking in Zhenya’s direction, “how was your meeting with Jim?”

Zhenya continued transferring leftovers to a glass container. “I said I’ll tell him later this week. If I want to re-sign.”

“ _If_ ,” Sid scoffed, and then shot Zhenya a guilty glance. “I mean. It’s up to you. But I thought—”

“Yes, of course I want to keep playing hockey,” Zhenya said impatiently. “But how long, Sid? I’m not Crosby, they won’t keep my—my _corpse_ on the fourth line,” proud of himself for remembering the word, which was more dramatic than _dead body_. 

Sid’s jaw tightened even as he rinsed the baking dish under the tap. “You’ve really got this three years thing stuck in your head, huh.”

“Because then your contract’s over.” Zhenya’s stomach was already knotting up. They’d had this conversation enough times that their roles were set like ruts in a dirt path. They each knew what the other would say, but there was no deviating from the predetermined route. “Three years, and then—”

“And then what?” Sid closed the dishwasher harder than was strictly necessary and gave Zhenya a flat stare. “We relocate to Miami and get fat on the beach? What if I want to keep playing? Three years is really soon.”

“You want to play like Cully,” Zhenya accused. “Two-hundred-year-old Sidney Crosby, look he still skates, he’s not dead!”

“I mean, yeah.” Sid took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I would love to still be playing at forty. And I’d love for you to still be playing with me.”

Zhenya was too old for that. His body wouldn’t hold out. Or his heart, maybe. His heart which had loved hockey for so long and was starting to pine for other things, thinking about the second half of his life still to come.

Sid’s face fell. “You don’t want to.”

Zhenya covered his eyes with one hand and swore expansively in Russian. “Of course I want to, Sid. We’ve played together, how long—fifteen years?”

He was only guessing, but Sid said, “Sixteen in the fall,” like he knew exactly and was keeping track. “We could make it a solid twenty.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” Zhenya burst out. “For what we’ve talked about, for—we have _plans_ , Sid!” Extensive, lovingly detailed plans, hashed out in the warm bubble of their bed over all their years together, whispered in the darkness as they held each other close. Planning had been their distraction from losing streaks, injuries, bad press, global pandemics, and all of the stresses and sorrows of ordinary life. At first they were far-off dreams, but as the years went by, Zhenya started to think in more concrete terms of what he would do after he retired, and by now what had begun as mere fantasies was standing at his threshold, loudly knocking on the door. He didn’t want to wait forever.

“Plans,” Sid repeated. “Well, yeah, I mean—and we’ll do all of that stuff. Winter in Moscow—”

“ _When_ ,” Zhenya said. “You say—you said—” He could feel his English crumbling, the way it still tended to when he was upset. He turned away from Sid’s bewildered expression to furiously wipe down the already clean counter. “You said you don’t want our kids to grow up with both of us away all the time. So when?”

“Is that what this is about?” Sid asked, and there was a long silence while Zhenya wiped invisible crumbs from the counter and tried not to start crying. He was surprised at himself, that these feelings lay so close to the surface. At last he felt a touch on his back and stopped his useless cleaning and bowed his head. Sid slid his hand along Zhenya’s spine and said, “You’re ready, huh?”

“Yes,” Zhenya said tightly. He dropped the sponge and turned to place his hands on Sid’s shoulders. Sid’s expression held none of the anger Zhenya had feared, only sympathy and fondness. Zhenya said, “Not this year. But soon. I’m ready.”

“Me, too,” Sid said. “But I still—I meant what I said. I don’t want to miss out, you know? And we would. Being away so much.”

“So,” Zhenya said.

“Tell Rutherford three years,” Sid said. “We’ll start the legwork. I want it, too, okay? All of our plans. And especially this one.”

Zhenya squeezed his eyes shut tight and felt a tear leak out, and then the gentle press of Sid’s thumb as he wiped it away. 

“Hey,” Sid said. “There’s sorbet in the freezer.” 

Zhenya nodded and rubbed at his eyes. “Okay. Let’s share.”

**2027**

Zhenya woke in the darkness with a wet chin. He wiped his face against the pillowcase to clean up the drool and reached out a leg beneath the covers, searching for Sid. The other side of the bed was empty, and so was the bassinet, when he sat up to check. According to his phone, he had only been asleep for a couple of hours, but he was so disoriented that it felt like much longer than that, but also much shorter at the same time.

He went downstairs, his eyes dry and gritty with exhaustion. A light was on in the kitchen. He went toward it, following the indistinct murmur of Sid’s voice. He couldn’t make out any words, but he didn’t need to. He could hear the tender affection in Sid’s voice and knew who Sid was talking to.

Sid had his back turned, leaning back against the island as he fed Kolya his bottle. Kolya’s small feet dangled near Sid’s hip, clothed in his footed pajamas. “Hungry little guy, eh?” Sid said. “The doctor’s going to yell at me for overfeeding you. Little chunk, little chunky baby.” He bent to press an unseen kiss to Kolya’s head. 

Zhenya stopped in the doorway to watch this midnight scene: Sid swaying gently from side to side, Kolya’s soft snorts and grunts as he ate. Sid kissed Kolya’s head again, and laughed at something Kolya did, maybe some expression he made. He had started smiling recently. He had smiled at Zhenya that morning when Zhenya heard him stirring in the bassinet and got up to check his diaper: a wide, gummy smile as Zhenya said good morning to him in Russian, quietly so he wouldn’t wake Sid.

Fatherhood, he was learning, held a potent combination of love and grief. From the moment of Kolya’s birth, he had been on a steady trajectory away from Zhenya: growing, changing. One day he would be too big to hold. One day he would leave home. That sharp edge to Zhenya’s joy only made it sweeter.

He hadn’t gotten enough sleep since they brought Kolya home, and that was the only reason his eyes watered as he stood there at three in the morning, watching his husband love their son.

“No, I can’t give you more than that,” Sid said, in his warm silly baby voice, the special voice he used only for Kolya. “I saw your papa’s note on the whiteboard. You got fed two hours ago. You’re trying to pull a fast one on me.” He shifted his weight and turned, yawning, and saw Zhenya lurking in the doorway, and smiled. “Speak of the devil. You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“Just woke up,” Zhenya said. “You need help?”

“Nah,” Sid said. He jiggled Kolya a little. Kolya had his eyes shut, sucking urgently, his tiny hands folded up in fists by his face. The creases of his palms had lint in them from how tightly he kept them closed at all times. “He’s almost done. We’ll be upstairs soon. Go back to bed.”

“Okay,” Zhenya said, but first he crossed the room to kiss Sid’s bare shoulder and stroke the soft, downy curve of Kolya’s head.


End file.
